Some day I will die.
It's a strange thought to dwell on at a time in my life when my children are so young. As, indeed, am I. And yet, since the birth of my oldest, I have never been more acutely aware of the passage of time.
Fatherhood came with its joys and its frustrations. The clench of my jaw at the twelfth tantrum of the day. The squeals of laughter from my kids when I sweep them up into my arms. I am immersed in emotion stronger than I would have imagined, but always, always, I return to the knowledge that this time will not last. I close my eyes and feel my breath moving in and out, as if simply concentrating will make the moment last longer. But time isn't something you can tuck away in a drawer—whatever I might wish, life moves ahead, my children grow up, we all get older.
A photograph is not a moment or a memory, not really. But in the act of photographing I am forced to slow down, to see, to really pay attention. And though some day even the pictures will fade and lose their meanings, it's somehow comforting to me that—for now, at least—there is some lasting testament to a time that may well turn out to be the best years of my life.